


Where Did All the Time Go?

by TehChou



Category: House, Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, Crossover, Horror, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:10:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehChou/pseuds/TehChou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House has an interesting case and meanwhile, Wilson's been acting a bit off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Did All the Time Go?

"It's easy. Like this, see?" The knife glints briefly, before sinking, disappearing into red. It hits the counter with a thunk and the tomato falls neatly in two, spilling seeds sluggishly onto the lamenent. Wilson grins at him over his shoulder, then turns back to his work, chopping more vigorously. House stares at his back, feeling cold. He twirls his cane between his hands and watches him wearily.

"Well go ahead, don't stop on my account," he says brightly, scooping up the pulverized fruit and dropping it into the pan where it sizzles and pops with the rest in the splattering heat of the pot. He turns around and leans against the counter. He's still grinning.

"Beginning to feel like this is a one-sided conversation here, House," he says, pleasantly. House looks away, teeth gritting, jaw muscle popping up in sharp relief.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he grinds out. Twirl left, twirl right, his cane wears ruts in his hands. He looks back up as Wilson's turning away. In the sallow light of the kitchen his eyes look almost black.

When the food is ready they eat in momentary silence until, reaching for the pepper, House cracks a joke and they laugh and everything is normal. House takes the scent of blood in his nose, the taste of it on his lips and shoves it in a box deep in his mind.  
__________

"We were camping," the guy, says gruffly, knee jumping, hands clenched, obviously tense. He's young looking, early thirties with a baby face to make the Greeks weep and reach for their pants. House feels like a pedophile just looking at him. No, he's kidding, but he really does look like a twink.

"In that jacket? You really are a rebel." House retorts.

It's been three days since the patient was admitted. Big, strapping kid, late twenties. He was unconscious when he was brought in by his younger brother (skinnier, but wiry with a tiredness to his eyes that indicated chronic depression). So far they haven't been able to torture out a fitting disease, only ruled out scores and scores of them. Meanwhile the patient's getting closer to dying and House has decided that someone isn't telling the whole truth.

_"And since most illnesses don't have vocal cords, my bet's on the brother."_

So. Here he is and here's the brother. Lying. A lot. House would be impressed if his brother wasn't dying. He leans forward.

"Tell me, does your brother like his skin," he asks conversationally, eyebrows arched high. The brother stares at him, unblinking and remains silent, recalcitrant, lips pursed irritably. House leans back, goes to stand.

"Fine," he snips. "You can sit there and lie out your pretty ass all day. I'm going to continue trying to save your brother and when he dies we'll both know it's because you couldn't get over yourself enough to tell the damned truth." He's at the door, grips the jam between his fingers. The brat keeps his damn mouth shut, though he thinks he's a whisper that sounds like "you'd never believe me, anyways," but that's probably the blip of the machines.  
__________

"You know some people think about suicide because it's comforting. In those people it activates the pleasure centers in the brain, induces euphoria." Wilson is spooning Chow Mein in his mouth with his chopsticks, speaking between bites and watching the television raptly. House stops staring at him dumbly for a moment to turn back to the show. Oh, right.

"Do you really think that's her motivation," he asks. "My money's on post-partum depression. Can't stand the new little runt."

Wilson just grins and the flickering of the television throws shadows across his eyes.  
__________

There's a noise from his doorway. When House looks up he finds the conscious brother leaning his arm against the glass, looking nervous, artificially relaxed posture radiating unease.

"We're, we're squatters," he admits not looking at him. He's still lying.

"Good for you," he goes back to reading his medical journal, flipping the page carelessly. The guy smacks a balled up fist against the glass producing a muffled thump. Probably not as dramatic as he was hoping for.

"4193 Slone street," he snaps. "You can believe me or not, but it's on you now if you don't." House studies his back as he leaves.  
__________

"This house isn't empty," Chase says staring at the bright light glaring obviously from three of the six visible windows. Foreman frowns and checks the address, again.

"Maybe he got the wrong one," he postulates, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably. Chase shrugs and starts forward.

"Better check just in case,"  
__________

"Oh my God, he's sick?!" The woman holds a hand up to her mouth, eyes wide.

"Uh, yes ma'am. If you don't mind we'd like to search your home for any potential causes." Foreman's expression is straining into his "nice to patients" look and Chase is just as uncomfortable and confused.

"Oh, of course," the woman insists, standing immediately from couch she'd sat them all down in when she'd invited them inside.

"He," she starts, then stops, shakes her head. "I'll do whatever's necessary to help him." She finishes, smiling awkwardly.

Neither Chase, or Foreman, they agree, have ever seen someone so helpful about pointing out health hazards in their own home, before.  
__________

"Why would he lie," Cameron asks, brows folded up into a confused crease. House is scribbling frantically on the white board.

"Maybe he has an image to uphold, can't let his boyfriends know he's lived with a real girl. Who cares? All that matters is we now have three more probable causes for a diagnoses."  
__________

House falls asleep with the image of Wilson's hands wrapped tight around his neck. His form is gray in the darkness, face a pale oval hovering above him. His tie tickles his nose.

He wakes up with a ring of bruises and wears the highest collar he has that day.  
__________  
Two things happen the next day. The patient wakes up and his brother meets Wilson.

"Hi," Wilson greets the brother, smiling. House ignores the curl of unease in his stomach like he's been ignoring how lately Wilson's patients have come out of his office looking shell-shocked, still thanking him and parting with a pleasant goodbye, but moving on autopilot, like their minds have disconnected from their bodies.

"Well, Mr. . . . Halen, is it?" He shoots House a quick look. House waggles his eyebrows.

"Anyways," he articulates slowly, looking away. The brother gives him a tight-lipped smile. "I'm Dr. Wilson. I'm going to be taking a look at Sam. We're worried he might have cancer that's compounding his symptoms and masking what else is wrong with him."

He continues on like that for awhile, gently explaining the procedures to the brother whose name is Dean, apparently. Wilson keeps calling him that, at least and he hasn't punched him, yet, though he's holding himself tight through the talk, lips and fingertips clenched so hard they’re pale from bloodlessness.

When Wilson finishes up and goes to leave he gently clasps the brother on the shoulder

"It'll be alright. Your brother's destined for great things, I'm sure." He smiles quickly and Dean stares at him for a long moment as Wilson goes to leave.

"Hey, Doctor," Wilson turns back.

"Christo," the boy tells him like it's a normal thing to spout random Latin at doctors, especially the name of Christ. House glances at Wilson. He's physically flinching, looking suddenly enraged.

Everything goes to shit after that.  
________

Cuddy's fucking furious. It isn't this fault and she knows it, but her close call to her precious hospital seems too much for her. Plus, he may have let slip that he knew their identities were faked, but there's nothing she can do about it, now. She leaves in a spectacular snit after Dean is arrested by the police. Wilson is understandably shaken, but he returns to work almost immediately. House ignores the cold pit in his stomach and goes back to the "scene of the crime", a name which makes him laugh. When he reaches it Sam is struggling to sit up, groping at the tube shoved down his throat. House rolls his eyes and slaps his hand away. He bends over the bed, slips the tube out himself.

"You brother," he tells him, while he struggles to catch his breath. "Has left a pretty bad impression on my boss. Me, too, if I'm honest. I mean I'm all for beating up on my best friend, but lace panties? Not cool bro." He levers himself into the newly empty chair by his bed. The seat is still just a little warm.

"What," Sam finally manages, hoarsely, to ask.

"You're getting better," House ignores him. "In a few days you'll be completely cured. There's just one question I have left for you, because see I think you know a little something something about it." Sam is gripping the arm of the bed in a white knuckled grip.

"What happened to-" he hesitates. "My brother." He finishes

"Oo, wrong answer. You were looking for daughter. Thanks for playing, though." Sam stares at him in confusion and House sighs.

"He was arrested," he finally answers. "For assaulting a doctor." Sam's eyes go wide and he tries, again to sit up. House presses a hand against his chest and gives him his best withering look.

"I have to-" he starts. "No," House interrupts him. "You have to tell me what's wrong with Wilson. Your brother knew and that's why he assaulted him. My guess is you know, too." His expression is carefully neutral. Sam seems to reluctantly subside, but he eyes the door and windows.

"Fifth story. In this condition you'll never make it and if you want to go out the door you'll have to go through me, first," he sits back and waves his cane a little. Sam glares at him.

"Who are you," his voice is stronger but still not much above a whisper.

"Dr. House," he grins, hard and sharp. "I saved your life."

Sam closes his eyes, briefly.

"OK, fine. What happened to your friend." He's more patient then his brother, at least. House fidgets with his cane, staring somewhere between the kid's face and the floor.

"He died," he says and the admission is like a punch to the solar plexus but he continues on. "He was stabbed, three times. He had massive hemorrhaging, bled out onto the street."

He remembers the feel of his fading pulse beneath his hands. Remembers yelling Wilson’s name as his head rolled on his shoulders, disoriented and unable to focus on House's face.

Remembers feeling that heartbeat stop in the darkness, the flow of blood trailing off to a trickle. Remembers feeling the fade of shadows press in around him, filling his vision. He'd passed out and when he came to he'd been in his apartment. He was home and Wilson was alive and telling him he'd drunk too much last night as he fed him water.

But later he snoops through Wilson's things and finds a bloody shirt and he remembers those shadows and tosses it in the trash.

He comes back from the memory with a shake. Swallows around a dry throat.

"The next day I came back and he was fine," he looks up and wishes he hadn't. Sam is looking at him with the biggest puppy dog eyes he's seen since Cameron. It makes him feel faintly ill, though that could be the memory. Who's checking?

"He was different, though, wasn't he," Sam says, gently. House twitches and shoot him an ugly look.

"You know what it is," it's not a question and Sam doesn't take it as one. He just looks thoughtful.

"It could be any number of things, it could be-"

"Black eyes," House grinds out. Sam grimaces and it looks ghastly on his sickly face.

"It's a demon," he says quietly and House doesn't flinch, doesn't cringe, just soldiers up and carries on.

"Any way to get rid of it," he asks. Sam nods, but doesn't look confident, and it's a reluctant agreement. House mulls all the implications of that over for a long moment, rubs his leg absently.

". . . It's keeping him alive, isn't it?" And Sam's silence is all he needs to hear. He pushes himself to his feet and Sam looks startled.

"Doctor," he begins, but House is already at the door. "Doctor!" He says it, again, louder this time. House can hear him trying to get out of bed behind him but he's too weak to toss a kitten, much less get to his feet. House gets away clean.  
________  
Wilson's corpse is in his office. He's sporting a black eye and shuffling through paper work. He looks up and gives him a slightly self-deprecating grin.

"Cuddy's relegated me to office work only until this heals," he motions to his eye.

"If you have anything in here you want to keep I suggest you pack it up, now," House answers. "I figure we have a few days before that kid breaks himself out, but better not to take any chances."

"W-what?" Wilson asks and House just stares at him for a long moment until he leans back in his chair and sets the pen down with a little tap.

"Sam's awake, then," he says, slowly. He gives House a look. "And you talked to him."

House nods, quick and curt. Wilson rubs his neck and sighs.

"I'm not going anywhere, House," he says, looking apologetic. He's got Wilson down so well it almost hurts. House swings deeper into the room, stands in front of his desk and looms over him as best a cripple can. 

"The way I figure it, right now, you're his life support system," He says. "Whatever you are, demon, spirit, strange venereal disease, you're keeping him alive and those boys want you dead. Which as far as I'm concerned means they want Wilson dead. You see my issue, I'm sure." He stares at him steadily through out this speech, eyes boring into him, but the thing in Wilson is unfazed.

"Sorry, House. Not gonna happen." He smiles and House almost believes the apology in his eyes. He sighs, again when House just continues to wait expectantly.

"They're just a couple of stupid kids, House, I'll be fine," he blinks up at him. "I mean, unless you're offering?" That throws House for a loop.

"Excuse me?" Wilson studies him, considering, searching his face for. . . something. House isn't sure what. He crosses his legs, folds his hands on his lap and leans forward.

"We could make a bargain. Him for you," House snorts.

"Yeah, sure, great. He'll die, he's already dead. Besides, what difference does it make to you? Me or him, he's dead and I'm a cripple. Why would you bother switching it up?"

"Well, see, that's the cool part. I can make him live, again. And," he adds, brightly. "I'll even fix that leg of yours." He taps the pen against his lips and winks.

"Hah, wait until he tells you the kicker," House startles and whirls around, almost toppling over. Dean is standing just inside the doorway, toeing the door closed. He has a gun trained on Wilson and his aim is steady. House's entire body tenses and his leg starts to throb.

"Better then I thought," he mutters.

"Yeah, well, I've had a lot of practice," the kid fires back, eyes not leaving Wilson's form half hidden behind House. He's blocking him, he realizes. He shuffles a little to the right and Dean glares.

"And I've had a lot of practice getting shot. So, here we are." House sneers. "You willing to shoot a cripple? With a- what is that thing, an antique? Did you find that in grandpa's 'medicine' cabinet?" Dean shrugs, rolling his shoulders loosely. Great, he might actually be competent.

"Yeah and I drank the stinky water, too. Which parts the trigger, again?" He shoots him a grin that's entirely devoid of humor.

"I won't let you shoot him," he snaps. He hears Wilson shift behind him. He sounds apologetic when he speaks.

"Sorry Dean. I think you might lose this one. See, all you can do is offer him a corpse. I can offer him ten years. Ten long, long years,"

Dean shakes his head, looking disgusted, opens his mouth to speak.

House cuts him off.

"What do you want?"

"Aw come on don't do this," Dean speaks and House makes an impatient gesture. He needs to hear this. Needs to know.

"What do you want," he hisses. He's eyes are wild, he knows they are, he can feel it. Dean looks more and more uneasy.

"Nothing important House. Just your soul." The words shudder through him, pound against his pulse, but it still doesn't feel real, he's floating, hallucinating.

"Fine. What do I need to do."

"Told you Dean," House can hear the apologetic smile on his face. "House, he, he. . . ." House can almost imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose, pained. There's blood in his sight, again, splattered across the walls of his eyes. He doesn't move his gaze from the gun, from Dean slowly, slowly edging deeper into the room, trying to get around him. House shifts, again.

"See Dean, he's a martyr. He wants to sacrifice himself.

"Just like you," Dean flinches, tightens his grip on the gun. House feels his own white-knuckled grasp on the handle of his cane twitch tighter in response. Dean takes a deep breathe and shifts his gaze to House, eyes wide and imploring and there's something old in them, some pain that's etched physical lines.

"You don't want this, old man. Trust me. I've been there." House stares at him, long and hard, tries to make sense of him.

But it doesn't matter, none of it matters. Everything's surreal, too sharp, too bright. Adrenaline is shuddering through his veins. He takes a deep breath and turns away from Dean, looks the thing in Wilson's body in his eyes. He almost immediately hears the unmistakable snap of the hammer being pulled.

"Don't do this," Dean hisses behind him. House ignores him.

"Why," he asks, instead.

Wilson smiles, gets up, moves around the desk towards him. House almost panics, can almost feel the barrel of the gun trained immediately on him, but Wilson's unfazed.

"Your soul's better then his body. I already got what I came here, for, after all," his eyes flick to Dean meaningfully.

He hears a sudden thump from behind him, a choked off sound like an aborted breath. Something clatters metallicly to the ground. Wilson's eyes flair black. House snaps his own eyes shut, doesn't want to see. Behind him, he hears choking and it gets louder, overlaid by a white coat heaving and red, labored breathing wet and ugly. He feels a hand against his face, feels the rasp of healthy skin against stubble, feels breath against his cheek.

"Please, House," he whispers and there's pain in it, so much pain. "I don't want to be dead." He tugs on his head, pulls him down. Leans their foreheads together. Dean chokes.

"Please," and House croaks out a noise, the answer stuck in his throat.

The sound of the gunshot is deafening.

House's eyes snap open. He's suddenly taking the entirety of Wilson's weight and he stumbles back, falls and Wilson's sparking, eyes white and wide and there's a sound like a scream in the air.

He closes his mouth with a clap. He looks up wildly, fingers tangled up tight in Wilson's coat stained red, red again.

Sam's standing in the doorway, panting heavily, skin sickly gray. Someone's screaming in the hallway, a nurse shouting loudly for security.

The brothers are gone almost immediately, supporting each other as the run. They leave House with a cooling corpse spread bonelessly across his lap.  
__________

After the questioning from the police, after the long and endless night begins to stretch into merciless dawn, he goes home. He finds Dean waiting for him, leaning tense against a wall.

"Where's your brother," he greets him, dropping his bag heavily on the ground. Dean seems at a loss for a moment, then looks away unable to meet his eyes.

"Safe," he says, finally. House swings past him, opens the fridge door and pulls out a carton of milk. He takes a long pull, wipes his lips.

"The police expected you'd come back here," he tells him. Dean shrugs, nods.

"Yeah, I know," he stares at the wall. "I'm not gonna say sorry," he continues, finally. "I know it doesn't mean anything."

"You wanted to appease your guilt, make sure I didn't try anything stupid." He grins and it's full of teeth. "Don't worry. I won't rest until you're dead." He informs him, voice as hollow as the space in his mind where he used to live. Dean nods.

"Fair enough, you're not the only one. Hell, we already ran into his cavalry." He smiles tightly. "It probably won't take long."

House limps over, offers him the milk. He declines. House shrugs and takes another swallow.

"So. Anything else before I call the cops and tell them they were right?" He asks when he's finished. Dean takes a deep breath and finally, he looks him in the eye.

"Thank you. For saving my brother." He holds his gaze for an indescribably awkward moment. Dean looks away first.

"OK, that's it, I'll uh, I'll let myself out."

House remains silent and when goes shuts the door behind him with a resounding crack. He puts the milk away, sits on his couch. His hand immediately gravitates to the bulge of the pocket as his hip. There's a crumpled piece of paper there; a file. He swiped it from Wilson's desk and it's a comforting presence. He feels the grin spread slow and horrible across his face, full ofl sharp edges and teeth.

It's the last diagnosis Wilson made, though he supposes he technically didn't make it, the last good news he'll ever hear. It's Sam's file, the results from the tests he'd asked him to run right before Dean got the shit kicked out of him.

Sam will be dead in a week.


End file.
